


Clarity

by SamApelyido



Series: Clarity [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Explicit Language, F/F, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamApelyido/pseuds/SamApelyido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story about Marco Bodt, a popular senior at Trost High School. With his many talents, sweet personality, and a smile bright enough to make someone go blind, he possesses every quality that could make any girl (or guy) fall head-over-heels. However, Marco has a dark secret, one that he's been keeping from the entire world since his freshman year. He's been denying it to himself and everyone around him, and from the way things seem right now, he's got the whole situation under control. That is, until he meets Jean Kirschtein, and all of his efforts to hide go right down the drain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clar·i·ty
> 
> noun
> 
> \ˈkler-ə-tē, ˈkla-rə-\
> 
> 1\. The quality of being clear, in particular.
> 
> 2\. The quality of being certain or definite.
> 
> 3\. The quality of being expressed, remembered, or understood, in a very exact way.
> 
> 4\. The quality of being easily understood.

I still wasn’t used to how long the hallways were.

Everything in high school was much bigger than it was in eighth grade, so it seemed, and even though I’d been a freshman for a little over a semester, I still tended to get lost sometimes. Then again, navigating my way through places was never really my forte, so I guess that wasn’t much of a surprise. Either way, it was going to be a long time before I found the front office to drop off the papers my science teacher had asked me to deliver, and not finding it soon would mean that I’d have to make the grave decision of interrupting a nearby classroom and asking how to get there.

Visions of numerous pairs of eyes locked on a mousy freshman dumbly asking for directions flashed in front of my eyes, and I shuddered at the thought, praying I would find my destination before having to resort to such a tragedy. Thankfully enough, though, a cream-colored sign that was hanging from the ceiling and read “front office” slowly came into my view after taking two more left turns and walking down another lengthy hallway. I could feel a sigh of relief bubbling up inside of me, however, that feeling was short-lived when I saw a familiar face standing outside of the office.

Actually, I soon realized, there were three. And they didn’t look too happy to see me.

“Bert?” I asked cautiously while approaching the tallest figure out of the trio. My best friend shot me a nervous look before his eyes pointed themselves to the brown box he was holding in his hands, his expression grim.

“Hey, Marco,” Bertholdt said, his gaze unmoving.

Before I could ask what was going on, or what was in that box, his mother and father quickly stepped in front of him. If they were trying to block me from his view, they wouldn’t have been able to. Bert towered over both of his parents; he was a full head taller than them. But I realized it wasn’t his view that they were blocking. They were trying to protect him. They were trying to protect him from _me_.

“Don’t you step any closer to my son,” his mother warned, and my body instantly froze.

“Marco…” Bert tried to maneuver around them to get to me, but his father put a hand on his son’s chest, holding him back.

“What’s going on?” The words flew out of my mouth before my brain could process them.

His dad let out a sound of disgust. “He’s acting like he doesn’t know. How foolish.”

“Mr. Hoover?” I was incredulous. Just a few days ago, he was welcoming me into their home, asking if I’d wanted to sit down and watch a football game with him and Bert. Where did this new attitude of his come from?

“I don’t want my precious son to be associated with people like you,” Bert’s mom sneered at me as she placed a dainty hand on his shoulder. “They’re absolutely _nauseating_ ,” she enunciated every syllable of the last word, as if saying it slowly would make it hurt ten times worse.

“What are you talking about?” People like me? What exactly was she implying?

Another displeased noise emitted from Bert’s father. “We don’t want our boy hanging around you filthy homosexuals. Who knows what kind of man he could turn into with someone like _you_ influencing him?”

“You think I’m _gay_?” I yelped. “Who gave you _that_ idea?” My heartbeat was starting to rise by the second, the pounding in my head intensifying, the papers in my hands starting to wrinkle from my fists clenching them too tight.

 _Calm down, Marco._ I told myself over and over. _Calm down._

“Oh please,” his mother said through her teeth. “Bertholdt told us all about how you said you might be one of them,” she spit the words at me like they were snake venom, and I could almost feel the poison stinging my body.

My eyes widened, and I immediately shifted my gaze to look at my best friend. “You told them?” my voice was filled with disbelief. “Why would you do something like that?”

All Bert could do was shrug, and I felt a sharp pain stab my heart. “They’re my parents, Marc,” he said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “I had to. I just didn’t think they would…” he trailed off.

“I told you that it was just some random thought!” I cried out. “I told you that it didn’t mean anything, and it doesn’t!” The words came out of me so easily, even though I knew deep down they were all lies.

Bert just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Marc,” he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

 _Like hell you are!_ I thought wildly, feeling a lump starting to form in my throat.

“Don’t speak another word to him, Bertholdt,” his father ordered. “We’re leaving.” The three of them started to walk away, but Mr. Hoover's words still hung in the air.

“Leaving?” I repeated. “Where to?” My eyes were as round as saucers, and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before they would fill with tears.

_Keep it together, Marco. Keep it together._

His mother turned around and glared at me. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re taking him out of this school, taking him to a place where there aren’t any people like _you_. You’re just lucky Bertholdt pleaded us not to tell your parents about this. What would _they_ think if they knew who you _really_ are?”

That did it. Tears streamed down my face, dropping onto my trembling hands that still clutched the papers I had yet to deliver. Bertholdt was leaving. The box he was holding contained all of his stuff, and soon he was going to be gone for good.

“Look, he’s crying because of what you said just now, Darlene,” I heard his father jeer. “That proves we were right, then. He really _is_ gay.”

All I could do was look at the papers in my hands, my vision too blurred to even make out the words on the page. “I’m not,” I choked out one last denial, but that only earned me a scoff from his mother.

“People like you are creations of the devil,” she spat. “Your very existence is a sin in the name of The Lord. It’s best you change your ways before you end up regretting it.” With that, she turned to her son, coaxing him out the door.

Bert fought against his mom’s pushing to take one last look at me and say, “I’m really sorry, Marc.”

I didn’t even look up at him. “Don’t ever call me that again.” The words left me in a choked whisper, but I knew for a fact he had heard me.

After Bertholdt left, I gave the papers to the front office clerk without a word, walking out as she was asking me what was wrong and if I needed to see the nurse. My mind was spinning too much to even think of a reply.

Bertholdt was a popular guy. Despite being shy and extremely timid, he was well-liked. He got good grades. He was an asset to the varsity basketball team even though he was just a freshman, and normally freshman didn’t ever have a shot at making varsity. He was doing well, but now he was going to have to start all over because of me. This was all because of what I’d said to him. I didn’t think…

The realization tugged painfully at my chest, and I stopped walking. It was very hard to breathe all of a sudden, and I started grabbing at my shirt, my lungs desperately pleading for air that just wouldn’t come. I frantically looked around to see if there was a place I could hide before someone caught me in this state, and thankfully, there was a bathroom only a few feet away. Without another thought, I dashed into the men’s room and into the nearest stall, collapsing onto the ground as soon as I’d clicked the door shut. I stayed as still as possible after that, attempting to calm my breathing and blinking away the tears that began to well up in my eyes once more. Bertholdt was gone. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have told him I was gay. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault.

A sob escaped from my mouth, and I wrapped my arms around both of my legs, shaking violently. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe he’d just _left_. My best friend since the sixth grade had turned his back and walked away with a crummy apology serving as his only parting words. What was he even sorry for? Was he sorry for telling his parents? Or was he sorry because in reality, he was never able to accept me?

Telling Bertholdt I was gay was something I’d said without thinking too much about. We were lying next to each other on his bedroom floor one day, stricken with boredom, and I’d told him out of the blue, “I think I might like guys.”

At the time, Bert seemed okay; he didn’t look like he had any sort of problem with my sudden reveal. I thought my confession was just one of those things we could discuss once and never have to worry about again. But if being gay ends up causing my friends to leave, if it causes people to look at me with disgusted, hateful eyes, then maybe…maybe that’s something I shouldn’t be.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I stopped trembling. That was my solution. If other people don’t want me to be gay, then I won’t. It was simple as that. I slowly picked myself off the floor and exited the stall.

 _I’m not gay_ , I told myself, calmly washing my hands and then walking out of the restroom. _Marco Bodt isn’t gay._

I repeated those words over and over and over again until they’d etched themselves so deep into my mind that I actually started to believe it.

*

Gasping, my eyes frantically popped open and my body threw itself upright. What the heck did I just dream about?

 _No_ , I thought, _no, that wasn’t just a dream_. That was definitely a memory. The realization made me put my face into my hands and groan loudly. What possible reason could there be for me to remember that _now_?

“Marco!” my mother startled me as she pounded her fist against my door. “Wake up! First day of senior year!”

A part of me really didn’t want to believe her, so I reached over to grab my phone that was sitting on the bedside table. The date read _Wednesday, August 7, 2013_ , and another groan escaped me as I fell back onto my pillow.

My fourth year of high school was definitely about to be a long one. Thank God it was my last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! This is my very first work on Archive of Our Own. I've written other fan fictions before, but this is the only one worthy enough to be put up for others to read, in my opinion. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! I'm going to have so much fun writing this, I can already tell.


	2. Back to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco returns to what can only be described as "adolescent hell" after a long, relaxing summer and manages to meet someone new on his first day.

The best thing about being a senior was that I no longer had to take the bus to school.

There was no more having to wake up as early as six in the morning to catch a ride with thirty other kids at seven o’ clock, nor would it take me more than forty-five minutes to get home in the afternoons. Time is precious when you’re in high school—well, it was for me, at least, what with all the after school clubs, sports practices, study sessions, etc.—so any extra minutes I had to catch up on sleep or homework was an absolute necessity.

I swiped my car keys off the kitchen counter with one hand, a piece of buttered toast in the other. After checking to make sure that everything I needed was in my backpack, I called up the stairs to my little sister. “Hey, Sophie! Are you ready yet? We’re going to be late!”

“Just a second!” her voice sounded, and I sighed, checking the clock on my phone. The time read seven forty, and school started at eight sharp. I knew it was her first day of high school and all, but how much time did she need?

I had just finished my toast when my sister bounced down the stairs in a black crop top and plaid flannel, accompanied with some navy-colored skinny jeans. Her hair was curled as were her lashes, and the amount of make-up on her face was enough to make any older brother uncomfortable.

_Nope. Not acceptable._

“What do you think you’re wearing?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest. “Or, well, I guess a better question would be: _where is the other half of your shirt_?”

Sophie just rolled her eyes at me as she straightened the sleeves of her flannel. “Give me a break, Marco. It’s my first day of high school.”

“Which is exactly why,” I crossed the kitchen to where she was standing in three strides, “You need to cover up, otherwise the upperclassman guys are going to eat you alive,” I told her while beginning to button up her flannel enough to where her stomach was no longer showing. “And why are you wearing long sleeves, anyway? It’s August, and we’re in Georgia. Are you trying to get heat stroke?”

She swatted my hands away, rolling her eyes again. “It’s fine, okay? Stop acting like Mom.”

“I’m not!” I protested a little too loudly, and she raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m not,” I repeated in a quieter tone. “I just think you’re too young to be wearing revealing stuff like that. Besides, how else am I supposed to react when my fourteen-year-old sister comes waltzing down the stairs with her bellybutton showing?” I poked her stomach a couple times, and she giggled.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” she said between laughs. “I’ll keep my flannel buttoned up the whole day, _and_ I’ll keep the sleeves rolled up so I don’t die of heat stroke. Deal?”

“Fair enough,” I agreed, poking her once more before going back to the kitchen to grab my backpack. “Are you ready to go?” I asked, slinging the bag over my shoulder.

She nodded, and we called up the stairs in unison, “Bye, Mom!”

“Wait!” I heard my mother wail, and suddenly she came into view, scaling the stairs at top speed.

“Oh no,” Sophie whispered, and I looked at her in alarm.

“What is it?”

“Marco, _run_!” my sister grabbed my arm and frantically started pulling me toward the door just as my mother whipped out her camera and began snapping away.

“First day pictures!” she sang, and Sophie and I screamed in horror. We dashed to the white Toyota Highlander waiting in the driveway, and I fumbled with my keys, trying to unlock the car as quickly as I could.

“Hurry!” Sophie urged me, her hands flailing by her sides.

“I’m trying!” I said back before jamming my thumb onto the unlock button.

Sophie and I opened the doors on either side of the vehicle and practically flung ourselves in before slamming them shut. I locked the car just as my mom rammed herself up against the driver’s side like a raging bull, pressing her face up against the passenger window and using her fist to bang on it repeatedly. The two of us screamed again, even though there was metal and glass now separating us from our deranged guardian.

“Just one picture!” her muffled voice pleaded, and Sophie and I looked at each other.

She shrugged at me, and I sighed before rolling down the window. We gave my mother the best smiles we could muster, the camera momentarily stunning us with a blinding flash.

“Have a good day, _mis amores_!” she laughed as she headed back towards our house.

“ _Mothers_ ,” Sophie muttered as she rolled her window back up, causing me to chuckle.

“Are you ready for this school year?” I asked her while putting the keys into the ignition.

My sister only shrugged, acting as if she was apathetic towards the subject. “I can get through it, no big deal.” We were quiet for a moment as I carefully backed out of our driveway and onto the road.

“How did you manage to get through _your_ first day of high school?” she questioned after we exited our neighborhood, and I smiled a little to myself.

“Well first of all, make sure you have the map of the school that they gave you at orientation. It’ll make it easier for you to find your way around,” I said.

“Got it. What else?”

I had to think for a moment before responding, “It’s better if you find at least one friend who has your lunch period, so you won’t have to worry about where to sit when the time comes around. Also, pay attention to your teachers. They’ll most likely be telling you about what you’re learning this year as well as the materials you’ll need for the class. Don’t be afraid to ask them any questions, okay?”

Sophie drew a deep breath. “I’m nervous,” she confessed.

“You’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Oh, but one more thing. This is super important.”

“What?”

“Relax,” I said through a smile. “Have fun. High school is supposed to be one of the best four years of your life, you know.”

My sister let out an unamused snort. “Quit being such a sap,” she said, and then added, “I’ll try.”

“Good. I will too.”

The rest of the drive was in a calming silence.

*

When I walked through the doors of Trost High School at seven fifty-five, the only thing I could think to do was heave a huge sigh.

 _One more year, Marco_ , I reminded myself while waving goodbye to my sister and beginning to weave between the huge crowd of kids going every which way. _Just one more year._

Miraculously enough, I managed to find my locker faster than I ever thought possible and quickly shoved half of the contents of my backpack inside of it. The bell was going to ring any minute, and the last thing I needed was to get a tardy on my first day back.

As soon as I was finished throwing things into my locker, I high-tailed it to the band room like there was no tomorrow. Mr. Ackerman was going to stomp my face in if I was late, and even though he was only 5’3, the man could really pack a punch. I mean, I’m positive that he’d never physically abused a student, but from two years of prior experience with him, anybody could tell that he was more than capable. The bell rang mere moments after I’d pretty much grande jete’d into the band room, and I had to stand where I was in front of the door in order to catch my breath.

“You sure got lucky this time, Bodt,” Mr. Ackerman’s voice said from somewhere in the room. “If you’d been a second later I’d probably have slammed the door in your face.”

I looked around for any sign of him amongst the rows of chairs and their inhabitants, but he was nowhere to be found. “I’ll be early next time, Mr. Ackerman,” I managed to say between pants. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“Never mind it,” he said beside me, and I jumped after realizing he was only a few feet to my left. “Just grab your saxophone and find a stand partner.”

“Right.” I didn’t waste another second, heading over to the brown shelves where a countless number of instrument cases were thrown carelessly upon. I skimmed over the names labeled on cases until I found mine, quickly grabbing it and heading back over to where everyone else was clustered. The saxophone section was to the right of the podium Mr. Ackerman stood at in order to conduct, and I scanned the rows to see if there was a chair empty. To my surprise there wasn’t, which I found odd. _Oh wait._

My stand partner from last year, Nac Tius, was sent to a boarding school over the summer, and it wasn’t likely that he was going to come back anytime soon. That meant the number of people on saxophone was odd, and I didn’t have a partner. Just my luck.

“Marco!” a familiar voice hissed to me, and my eyes searched for its source. I caught a glimpse of my friend Armin motioning for me to sit by him. Beside the blond was my other friend Connie, and it looked like they had chosen each other as partners.

“ _Today_ , Marco,” my teacher called out in annoyance, and I settled for pulling up a seat directly behind Armin.

As soon as I sat down and began pulling out my instrument, Connie turned around and whispered, “Sorry, dude. We completely forgot Nac wasn’t here anymore, otherwise we would’ve—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted, brushing it off. “It’s not like I _need_ to have a stand partner.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I gave him a reassuring smile, and he shrugged before turning back around.

“Alright, let’s get started. Pull out the music I gave you all at orientation and—”

“Sorry I’m late!” A guy with olive-colored skin and a weird haircut burst through the door, looking tired and out of breath like I was a few minutes ago. The entire class turned to look at him, and he immediately drew back as he realized how loud he probably was.

“Ah, the new kid,” Mr. Ackerman said flatly. “I assume you have a tardy pass for me?”

The guy nodded and walked over to the band director, handing him a small slip of white paper.

“Grab your instrument and find a stand partner,” Mr. Ackerman practically growled, but the kid didn’t seem fazed at all by the teacher’s harsh tone. He simply bobbed his head again and made his way over to the instrument shelves.

After picking up a case that was about the same size as mine, he turned to our instructor and asked, “Uh, where do I sit?”

Our teacher rolled his eyes. “What instrument are you?”

“Sax.” The single word caught my attention, and my eyes became rounder than saucers.

“Then take a seat next to Mr. Bodt over there,” Mr. Ackerman was saying. “Marco, wave so that he knows who you are.”

I raised a hand, dragged it back and forth in the air a couple times, and next thing I knew, the kid was walking in my direction, an angry look in his eyes. It was almost as if he was _glaring_ at me, and frankly, it was starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I shifted in my chair awkwardly as he took a seat to my left.

“Jean,” he grunted at who I presumed was me as he leaned over to take his saxophone out of its case.

“What?” The question left my mouth sounding ruder than I’d intended it to.

“My name is Jean,” he repeated. “Jean Kirschtein.” My initial thought was that he was saying _John_ , but there was something about the way he pronounced it that seemed a little off. Maybe I hadn't heard him right and it was actually something different?

Deciding to test my theory, I asked, “Oh, is it short for Jonathan?”

The guy sighed as he slid his mouthpiece onto the neck of his sax. After taking a few more moments to hook the neck strap to the body of his instrument, he responded dryly, “No, it’s not John as in J-O-H-N. My name is spelled J-E-A-N. It’s French.”

“Oh,” I suddenly felt really silly. “Well, I’m Marco,” I said, and then added after a slight pause, “Bodt.”

He turned to look at me then, and I got my first glimpse of his actual appearance up close. His eyes were a light brown, his build mediocre. He was wearing a faded pair of dark-colored jeans and a black t-shirt that screamed “Arctic Monkeys” in white block letters, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was some kind of band I’d never heard of.

As for his hair, it really _was_ weird, for lack of a better word on how to describe it. It was two different colors; the sides were shaven and the color of dark chocolate, and the top was long enough to reach his ears, its shade being a dirty blonde. It was definitely something I hadn’t seen before, but it suited him somehow. If I managed to catch anyone else with that kind of hairdo, it probably wouldn’t look right. I continued to examine his triangular jawline, his fair cheekbones, and his eyebrows that were the same color as the shaven part of his head.

 _All in all, he’s a pretty good-looking guy_ , I thought, and suddenly the realization that I’d been staring at him for way too long crossed my mind. My head quickly snapped into the other direction, and I pretended like I was coughing into my arm.

“Well, ’s nice to meet you, I guess,” I heard him say, and I turned back to face him.

“Yeah,” I swallowed before giving him a smile. “Yeah, you too.”

*

After my brief self-introduction with Jean, Mr. Ackerman had our class take the first ten to fifteen minutes of the period to site-read the music he gave us before school started. That’s when things got… _awkward_.

Everyone around us immediately picked up on other conversations not relating to anything involving band, things such as how much they missed each other, what they did over the summer, and basically catching up on each other’s lives. But for Jean and I, there was nothing to catch up on. We hardly even knew each other, so there was no “picking up from where we left off.” This guy was a stranger to me, and the only thing I knew about him was that he seemed like he really didn’t want to be here.

“So…what are the Arctic Monkeys?” I asked after a solid four minutes of silence between us. “Is that a band?”

Jean, who had been fiddling around with the name tag on his instrument case, raised his head to look at me. “Uh, yeah,” he said, sounding kind of uncomfortable. “Indie rock band. From the UK.”

“Cool, cool,” I nodded my head a couple times while straightening the sheet music on the stand before us. “So you like indie rock, huh?”

The guy gave me a weird look, one I couldn’t place, and it made me wonder if I’d said something wrong. But then he replied, “Yeah, ’s kinda been my thing since middle school.”

“Ah.” I couldn’t come up with another response, so I just nodded again before turning my focus back to the music sheets that just wouldn’t straighten themselves correctly.

Jean watched me for a moment before speaking up again. “What about you?”

“Huh?” I stopped and turned to look at him, a questioning expression on my face.

“I…I was just wondering what kind of music you were into,” he told me in a less-confident voice, and it looked like he’d shrunk back a little, as if he thought that he’d accidentally said something out of turn.

I gave him a little smile before answering. “I usually just listen to whatever plays on the radio.”

“Oh, so you’re into more mainstream stuff.”

“I guess…?”

There was an awkward pause.

“I like dubstep, though,” I offered, “And chillstep. You’ve heard of chillstep, right?”

Jean wrinkled his nose a little bit, confused. “Dubstep, yeah, but I've no idea what chillstep is. Wanna explain?”

I thought for a moment and then grinned slyly. “Oh, you know, it’s like dubstep, but more… _chill_.”

The blond blinked at me before his expression turned sour, his eyes narrowing and his mouth curving downward. “Ha ha,” his dry, mirthless laugh was tinged with annoyance, and I couldn’t help but let out a snort.

That caused him to break his agitated demeanor and give me a semi-amused grin. “I’m being serious!” he exclaimed, playfully swatting my arm.

“I am too,” I said between laughs. “It’s basically dubstep but with a lower bass and slower beats.”

“Huh.” He pondered over that for a moment. “Can you give me an example?”

“…Are you asking me to sing some chillstep for you? You know that’s not possible, right?”

“Of course not,” he rolled his eyes at me, but he was smiling. “I just meant that if you have some songs on your phone or something, you should show me. I wanna hear what it’s like.”

“Sure, why not?” I said still slightly amused, but as I began to pull my phone out of my pocket, Mr. Ackerman’s voice interrupted with thundering bravado.

“Based on how _loud_ this room is, I can tell that you all are just _so_ _excited_ to be back here.” The smile he gave us was intimidating enough to make almost everyone in the room stiffen. “That’s good! Because this year, I’m going to make you work so hard you’ll be sweating music notes from the pores of your skin.” His statement made me gulp nervously, despite lacking any kind of sense.

“Wow, what a stupid thing to say,” a voice said next to me, and my eyes widened in horror.

Slowly, I turned my head to the source of the voice, praying that what I’d just heard was actually an illusion, but it wasn’t. Jean was staring straight at Mr. Ackerman—who was only a few feet away from us—with a blank expression on his face. Meanwhile, our instructor was somewhat taken aback at the student’s provocative statement, and his eye twitched slightly.

 _R.I.P. Jean Kirschtein_ , I thought, turning my head towards the front of the room and squeezing my eyes shut. _I didn’t know him all that well, but I bet he was a great guy._

“What was that?” I heard my band director snarl, and I swore in my head.

Jean blinked, as if he were still unaware of his grave mistake. “Well, what you said just now didn’t make any sense at all,” he spoke, his blank expression unwavering as Mr. Ackerman stalked swaggeringly toward him.

“Is that so?” our teacher replied smoothly as he approached the younger man, staring him down with vicious intent.

“Uh…yeah?” Their stare-down continued as the rest of the class watched in a breathless silence, and I could already tell what was going through their minds.

_Is this guy crazy? Why would he say something like that to Mr. Ackerman? That poor dude, he’s about to get the brains beaten out of him._

I just knew these words were swirling around in their heads, because they were definitely moving their way through mine. But as I braced myself for the worst, Mr. Ackerman just gave Jean a cold smile, one that said “I’ll get you later”, and turned to walk away, causing the entire classroom to almost simultaneously sigh in relief. We wouldn’t have to clean the new kid’s remains up off the band room floor, and that was definitely something to be thankful for.

Meanwhile, I looked at my newly appointed stand partner, incredulous. “Who _are_ you?” I marveled, and immediately shut my mouth when realizing I’d accidentally said that out loud.

To my relief, Jean just snorted and asked, “Whaddaya mean?”

“I…I just…” I stammered and scratched my head while racking my brain for the right words to say. “Not many people stand up to him like that,” I decided after a few moments, “And those who do…well, it doesn’t end too well for them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I bobbed my head up and down. “I guess I’m just surprised he backed down like that so quickly.”

“Well, it wasn’t too big of a deal, anyway. I’m used to adults like him,” Jean shrugged.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had to live with a mentally abusive father for almost eighteen years. It’s one of those things you just gotta learn to deal with.”

“…Oh.”

Silence passed between us, but then Jean said, “Or maybe he backed off because he smelled the garlic I got stashed away in my pocket. I heard vampires hate that stuff.”

I looked up to see that he was staring at me with an amused expression on his face, causing me to let out a mischievous snicker. We struggled to hold down our laughter as Mr. Ackerman began instructing the class, earning us some odd stares from a few people in the flute section. After we were done wheezing and huffing in the back of the room however, I looked at my new stand partner and gave him another smile. Jean Kirschtein grinned back, and I felt like this year wouldn’t be so bad if it meant getting to know someone like him.

*

As it turned out, band wasn’t the only class period I had with Jean. When I walked into the AP Biology room at the start of second period, I managed to catch a glimpse of a familiar black Arctic Monkeys shirt among the gob of seniors trying to find desks with their names on them. He was already sitting down in the middle row five seats from the front, talking to a guy with short, blonde hair and muscles that looked like they were huge enough to rip his shirt to pieces.

Jean saw me out of the corner of his eye and we made eye contact, but he didn’t get up and come to greet me like I half-expected he would. Instead, he gave me a brief smile and nod before returning his attention to his muscular friend, not even giving me enough time to wave back. I quickly shuffled over to my desk afterward because I realized the only one still at the front of the room was me, and I probably looked like an idiot standing there.

The bell rang not a full minute after, and in walked a short woman—who I rightfully assumed was our teacher—with gray, shoulder-length hair and thin, circular glasses. She wore the same facial expression Jean had on this morning when we first met, except hers screamed more hatred and annoyance for school and everyone in it. She said her name was Ms. Burrow-jen-kus or something or other, but she spoke so quickly that I didn’t get a firm grasp onto what it actually was. I knew that would come back to bite me later.

I didn’t talk to Jean for the entirety of the class period, and he didn’t talk to me. Our teacher was the one speaking for most of the time, so it made sense that he wouldn’t, but I swore I heard him snickering behind me a couple of times. It didn’t bother me, though, because we weren’t that acquainted yet, after all; I understood if he still felt a bit uneasy in my presence.

Third period went by just as quick as second, and thankfully, fourth did as well. By the time fifth period lunch rolled around, however, I was on the verge of collapse. I’d forgotten how stressful it was just being in a high school environment, and when I got stressed, my appetite increased tenfold. I breathed a sigh of relief while nudging my blue tray down the lunch line, picking up a slice of cheese pizza, some apples, a salad, and a bottle of water. Though, while walking up to the cash register, I looked down and realized my apples were soggy and my salad was made up of five leaves and a tomato. School food was as disappointing as ever, it seemed. The thought made me grimace as I paid for my meal.

After walking a few steps away from the register, I stopped to scan the cafeteria in search of any familiar faces. After a few seconds, I managed to catch a glimpse of Armin frantically waving his arms at me from a table on my right, and I exhaled in relief. I made my way over to where he was motioning to me only to find that he wasn’t alone. Upon arrival, three more of my friends were there to greet me: Krista, Annie, and Connie, pretty much the whole gang. It was comforting to know that we all had the same lunch period this year, and I couldn’t help but grin while taking a seat next to Krista.

“Man, am I glad to see you guys,” I said, popping my salad container open.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Annie replied, taking a small sip of her water. “If you hadn’t gotten here when you did, we would’ve had to give up your seat to some disgusting freshman.” She wrinkled her nose as if the thought really grossed her out.

“Oh, come on, my _sister_ is a freshman,” I pointed out, my left cheek stuffed with salad.

“Well, she’s an exception. She’s much more… _pleasant_ than most of the people her age.”

“You have a point there,” Connie chimed in. “You know, it’s always a pain in the ass trying to get around all these kids who look like they don’t even know which way is left,” he shook his head disappointedly.

“We were like that when _we_ were freshmen,” I reminded them.

“Yeah, but you’d think these guys would be smart enough to at _least_ carry around a map,” Connie replied. “I bet you some of them even have trouble finding a bathroom.”

“They’re completely ignorant, these people,” Annie agreed, and I rolled my eyes and grinned while continuing to munch on my salad.

“Hey, isn’t _that_ your sister over there?” Krista spoke up, and I looked to where she was pointing.

Sophie was standing smack dab in the middle of the cafeteria all by herself, her eyebrows furrowed and one side of her mouth curved downward. As her big brother, I’d seen that look on her face a thousand times before, so I was one of the only people who knew what it meant. That was always the expression she wore when she was about to—

I immediately sprang up and made a beeline for my little sister, praying to God that she would be able to keep it together until I got to her. My feet moved faster as I saw the other side of her mouth slowly moving its way down and her lip starting to quiver.

 _Crap, crap, crap,_ I thought, growing more panicked. _Please don’t cry, Sophie, please don’t cry._

Finally, I was able to make my way over to where she was standing, grabbing and pulling her close. We quickly made our way back to my table, my arm wrapped tightly around her and her face half-buried into my shirt.

“It’s okay, I’m right here,” I told her in a hushed voice, and she sniffled. “You’re alright now, it’s alright.” I waited for her to nod her head before breathing yet another sigh of relief.

When we got back to where Connie and everyone else were seated, we found that the entire table was full except for the place where I was previously sitting. Another sigh was working its way out of my mouth before Krista suddenly piped up.

“Here,” she said, and I saw that she’d scooted over in her chair, leaving half of it open. “You can share with me, okay?” she told my sister. Sophie nodded and gave her a look of thanks as she sat down, and I was suddenly grateful that Krista was so petite.

I sat back down in my own seat but didn’t continue eating. “What happened?” I asked my sister instead. “Where are all of your friends?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I couldn’t find them at all and there were so many people and they were all staring at me and—” her voice trailed off and she started picking at a hangnail on one of her thumbs. Looks of sympathy were given to her all around, because we knew the feeling. We’d all been there before.

I patted her head and she seemed to shrink under my touch. “Don’t worry me like that, okay? I seriously thought you were about to have a meltdown in front of everybody.”

“Sorry,” came her barely audible reply.

I snorted and flicked the bridge of her nose, causing her to let out a sound of surprise. “There’s no need for you to apologize,” I told her. “You’re my baby sister. I’ll always be looking out for you.”

“I’m not a baby,” she pouted, only further proving my point. “But thanks,” she added, and I smiled.

“Just doing my job.”

*

Sixth and seventh period went by faster than I thought possible, as did my daily volunteer hours and swim team practice. Although, it was around 7:30 by the time I finished, so while walking toward the parking lot and checking my phone to see if I had any missed calls or text messages from my sister, I couldn’t help but notice how dark it was getting outside.

“Geez, where is Sophie?” I wondered aloud. “If she doesn’t show up soon, she’s going to have to walk home.”

“Wow, some boyfriend _you_ are,” a voice smirked from behind me, and I whirled around. Jean smiled and gave me a little wave. “Hey.”

“Sophie’s my little sister, actually,” I corrected, and he put his hands up defensively.

“Honest mistake.”

I rolled my eyes before asking, “What are you still doing here? It’s getting late.”

Jean shrugged. “Just didn’t feel like goin’ home.”

“Ah.” I didn’t know whether it would be okay to ask him the reason why or just leave it alone.

“Oh, but I’m glad I caught ya,” he said, changing the subject, and I looked at him questioningly.

“What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could send me copies of our sheet music for band.”

“What happened to yours?”

His tone suddenly turned sheepish. “Sorta lost ‘em.”

 _Wow._ “Didn’t we just get them like a week ago?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “So will you send ‘em to me?”

“I guess,” I sighed. “What’s your email?”

He hesitated for a moment before answering, “Super saiyan man ninety-six at yahoo dot com,” and quickly averting his eyes. I stared at him in blank shock for a few moments before I doubled over and lost it in the middle of the parking lot.

“H-Hey, shut up! I was in fifth grade when I made my account, alright?” he yelled, but I couldn’t control myself. My laughter continued for a good minute more until it was reduced to a few giggles and snorts here and there.

“Sorry,” I apologized, trying to catch my breath and stop laughing at the same time. “I just—I didn’t expect you to be the type of person who was into Dragonball Z, Jean.” I wiped away some tears that were starting to form in my eyes.

“I’m not!” he protested. “I mean, I was. But I’m not anymore,” he glared at me, folding his arms.

“Okay, okay,” I chuckled, holding up my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry for laughing.”

“Whatever,” he scowled, looking in another direction.

“By the way...”

“What?”

I struggled to keep myself together. “That…That’s ‘saiyan’ with one ‘i’, right?” I covered my mouth as a few giggles started to leak from my lips.

Jean looked at me blankly for a moment before his face scrunched up again. “You’re really funny, Marco,” he said to me before turning and walking away, his hands shoving themselves into the pockets of his jeans.

“But you still didn’t answer my question!” I called after him.

“Piss off!” came his now-distant reply.

I was still snickering even when Sophie joined me in the parking lot. “Who was that guy yelling at you just a minute ago?” she asked.

“No one,” I replied, finally getting ahold of myself. “Get in the car.”

*

The drive home consisted of my sister chattering away about how her first day went, but I hardly registered what she was saying; I was too busy thinking about how emailing Jean was at the top of my to-do list when I got home, before I became too preoccupied with other things and forgot.

“Marco, are you even listening?” I heard Sophie whine.

My answer sounded unconvincing, even to me. “Yeah, sure I am.”

She made a disgusted noise before letting it go, and we arrived at our house a couple minutes later. My mom was waiting at the front door when we pulled into the parking lot, excitedly waving at us. By the time I’d pulled my keys out of the ignition, she was already dragging Sophie out of the passenger’s side and asking her how her day went. I walked over to give Mom a quick kiss on the cheek before heading inside and up to my room, not bothering to head into the kitchen for dinner. I didn’t have much of an appetite, surprisingly enough.

I opened the door of my room and flipped the light on, then headed over to my desk and turned on the monitor of my computer. The slightly aged machine roared to life, and I spun around in my desk chair while waiting for all of my programs to load. A few minutes passed, and then I pulled up my email and clicked on the compose button, tapping my fingers lightly on the mouse as I waited for a new draft to open. I attached the digital files of our sheet music to the email and was about to hit send, but I stopped. A mischievous smile spread across my face, and I decided to type up a short message to go along with the documents.

 **To:** [ **supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com** ](mailto:supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com)

**From:** [ **therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net** ](mailto:therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net)

**Subject: Sheet Music**

**I thought super saiyans were at least responsible enough to not lose their sheet music. I’m a little disappointed. :-P**

**—File(s) attached—**

I was snickering by the time I actually hit send, mentally patting myself on the back for being such a witty fellow. Jean’s response came soon after.

 **To:** [ **therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net** ](mailto:therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net)

**From:** [ **supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com** ](mailto:supersaiyan96@yahoo.com)

**Subject: Re: Sheet Music**

**Ha ha, very funny for a guy whose email is “the real marco bodt”. What. Do you think you’re Eminem?**

I snorted while typing out a reply.

 **To:** [ **supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com** ](mailto:supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com)

**From:** [ **therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net** ](mailto:therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net)

**Subject: Re: re: Sheet Music**

**I’d rather have people know I was into an inspirational rap artist rather than a lame kid’s show when they see my email address!**

**To:** [ **therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net** ](mailto:therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net)

**From:** [ **supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com** ](mailto:supersaiyan96@yahoo.com)

**Subject: Re: re: re: Sheet Music**

**Dragonball Z isn’t a lame kid’s show, alright? It’s for people of all ages.**

 

 **To:** [ **supersaiyanman96@yahoo.com** ](mailto:supersaiyan96@yahoo.com)

**From:** [ **therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net** ](mailto:therealmarcobodt@bellsouth.net)

**Subject: Re: re: re: re: Sheet Music**

**Whatever you say! Good night, Jean. :-D**

I shut down my computer and reached my arms out to the sky, letting out a big yawn while doing so. Exhaustion was finally settling its way in, and if I didn’t make it to my bed soon, passing out in my chair was most likely inevitable. Slowly, I trudged my way to bed and collapsed on top of the mattress, undoing my belt and kicking off my jeans as soon as my face hit the sheets. Then I rolled over until managing to get myself to the edge of the covers, where I proceeded to wriggle my way under them with utter grace.

 _We made it through one day, Marco_ , I told myself, beginning to drift off. _It’ll be the end of the year before we know it._ I fell asleep that night with the day’s events still repeating themselves in my head.

Days Left of Senior Year: 179

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! <3 It's been quite awhile since I've updated Clarity, and I'm extremely sorry for that. School got in the way among other things, and my motivation to continue this series simply ran thin. However, do not fret! I'm planning on finishing this story no matter how long it takes me, so I hope you guys will stick with me until then. :)
> 
> You've also probably noticed that I've deleted the majority of the chapters, and that is because I've been editing the crap out of Clarity for the past few weeks. I've tweaked a few small details as well as merged some chapters together, so hopefully said chapters won't seem as short to some of you. I know that this chapter doesn't cover all of the events that have already happened in the story, but that will all be re-uploaded in a few days; I just have to finish some minor editing.
> 
> My motivation to write hasn't completely been restored, but I'll be doing my best to produce content for you all as soon as possible! I definitely do not want to be one of those authors who abandons their stories, especially because this one has hardly started. I promise that Clarity will be a finished fan fiction someday, but please be patient with me in the meantime. ^^
> 
> If you want to see what I'm up to or send some angry messages telling me to get off my lazy ass and write, feel free to follow my main tumblr @arizona-bxy! Also, don't forget to leave your kudos and comments; anything would be much appreciated! See you in the next chapter, lovelies!!


	3. Weekend Practice and Special Sundaes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having marching band practice on a Saturday is a torturous thing, and Jean Kirschtein is an odd guy for more reasons than one. Also, Ymir and Krista work in a 50's-style diner. The diner has a jukebox.

Band should seriously be considered a sport.

I mean, think about it. We had to perform at almost every single school event from pep rallies to football games to competitions to concerts (and trust me, we had _way_ too many of those), not to mention the amount of hours necessary to _practice_ for them. It’s not like we were just playing the songs over and over until we got them right either; we had to do other things like learn and perfect the formations we were going to be doing out on the football field for a certain game, and it was a different one _every single week_. So yeah, I guess you could say we were like athletes. We even had the matching uniforms to prove it.

I’m not one to complain or anything (since I’d pretty much gotten used to it, what with three years of prior experience and all), but you have to admit that it’s a lot more work and dedication than some people can probably handle. It just makes me feel sorry for the poor freshmen who are most likely wondering what the heck they’ve gotten themselves into, especially with Mr. Ackerman’s strict teaching methods. He’s had people quit band altogether because of that too, most of which were first years trying to get out while they still could. It kind of makes you wonder which of these newbies will be the first to get fed up with my band teacher’s condescending wrath…

“Wrong!” Mr. Ackerman roared into the ear of a sophomore on the trumpet, and I swore you could see his spit flying onto the face of that poor girl. “The note is D _flat_. You played a D _sharp_.” Uh oh, is his eye starting to twitch again?

The girl actually whimpered, her short blonde hair bobbing as she furiously nodded her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll play it right next time.”

“Of course you will,” our teacher said through clenched teeth, and then turned his focus back to the rest of us. “From the top!” he shouted. Swear words and groans rippled throughout the group before we began to play our fight song for what was the seventh time in a row.

Thirty seconds in, Jean put down his instrument and vigorously shook the cramps out of his hands, cursing violently under his breath. “Damn, is he _always_ this tough on everyone?” he muttered as he wiped some of the sweat off his forehead with the back of his palm. He then proceeded to take his sheet music from his pocket and fan himself with it, letting out an irritated sigh.

I understood his frustration completely; we were out practicing formations in the early hours of the afternoon, the time of day where the sun put in most of its effort to burn the skin of a group of already sweaty teenagers and their grumpy instructor—and it was a Saturday in August at that. And only—I checked my white wrist watch—two hours and twenty-three minutes left until the end of today’s practice. _Great_.

“He’s really keen on making sure we’re playing our best for the first performance of the season, since that’s when he chooses the leaders of every instrument section,” I responded. “He calms down a little bit after that. Not by much, though.”

“Good to know,” Jean’s voice dripped with irritation. “So howmuch time do we got left until we can get outta here?”

“Two and a half hours, give or take.”

He gave a hiss of disapproval. “Son of a bitch.”

Well, I didn’t exactly know how to respond to that, so I readjusted my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose and hoisted my saxophone back up so that my mouth piece was hovering a few inches away from my lips. I didn’t play right away though; instead, I paused for a second and then looked back at Jean.

“After-school practices will get easier as soon as we actually perform for a game and get back into the routine. You’ll see,” I told him with a somewhat reassuring smile.

He just stared at me for a second before saying, “Yeah,” and then picking back up to where we were in the song.

 _Oh._ I awkwardly rotated myself away from him and began to play as well, doing everything I could to avoid any eye contact from that point on.

That was another odd thing I’d realized about Jean Kirschtein after only three days of knowing him. Sometimes he’d be really easy to approach and we could have a conversation like we’d known each other for years. Then there would be occasions where he’d act very cold and distant toward me, as if he didn’t appreciate my effort to try and be his friend. Something told me he wasn’t the type of person to warm up to people too quickly, and the fact that he also flat-out refused to attend any of the social outings some of us band members planned for the rest of the month really proved it. He was just a peculiar guy, that Jean Kirschtein. It made me wonder how he would be if he actually opened up to me, or _anyone_ at Trost for that matter.

*

The rest of practice went by agonizingly slow, and when it was all over, the relief mixed with the amount of utter exhaustion I felt was absolutely indescribable. As soon as Mr. Ackerman dismissed us for the day, I was almost tripping over my own feet running to the parking lot with my backpack and saxophone weighing me down. I was more than likely stared at for it, but if I didn’t at least make it to my car, I was going to pass out somewhere in between the distance from the football field to the parking lot that was four yards away. Thankfully I was able to make it, practically hurling all of my stuff into the trunk of my Highlander and letting out a strangled sound of relief as the weight was ripped from my body. It was a miraculous feeling, having nearly twenty-five pounds of brass, plastic, paper, etc. leave me all at once, and I wondered to myself just why school was so…heavy.

“Sure is tough to be you, huh?” a familiar voice chuckled.

I turned around already knowing who the voice belonged to. “Hi, Jean.”

He gave me a small wave. “Hey.”

“You’re just going to hang out in the parking lot again?”

Jean shrugged. “Maybe I’ll go to the library or something. Ya know, just to mix things up a bit.” The sarcasm was practically radiating off of his body, which meant that he was probably back to his usual self.

“You could always hang out at my place,” I offered. “It’s a Saturday night, after all.”

The guy just shook his head. “Nah, I’m alright.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well see you around.”

“See ya.” As he began to walk back toward the field with one hand gripping his saxophone case and the other shoved carelessly into his left pocket, I found myself almost feeling bad for him. I had no idea what his situation was at home, but it must have been pretty bad considering that he never seemed to want to go back.

“Hey, Jean!” I shouted before being able to put more thought into what I was about to say.

He turned around, looking a bit surprised. “Yeah, what’s up?”

I hesitated for a mere second before asking, “Do you want to get some ice cream?”

*****

“Ice cream,” Jean repeated flatly, and I immediately bobbed my head.

“There’s this old diner just down the road from here,” I explained as he raised a questioning eyebrow at me. “Since you’re new to the area, I thought you might want to try it out.”

He blinked.

I added, “They have good sundaes.”

That made him snort for one reason or another. “Ya know, what I don’t understand is why you’re always bein’ so nice to me. I’m not exactly the greatest person to hang around.”

I tried to pretend like that didn’t catch me off guard and instead told him, “Well, I actually _wouldn’t_ know that, because we’ve never hung out before,” with a grin, and he rolled his eyes at me despite knowing I had a point.

“Fine, then,” he agreed, and I mentally high-fived myself.

“Do you want to take your own car or would you rather ride with me and come back for it later?” My hand reached for the keys in my pocket and I started to make my way toward the front of my ride, but Jean didn’t move. I turned back to look at him and ask what was up only to see that he was scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“I sorta don’t have a car,” he confessed.

“Then how do you get back home when you have to stay after school?” The amount of obvious surprise in my voice was hard to ignore.

He turned his head to the right and admired some rose bushes that proudly sat on the edge of a sidewalk before muttering, “I walk.”

“Seriously? How far away do you live from here?”

“…Almost ten minutes by car, I think.”

My eyes widened. “You walk _four_ miles to get home every day?”

Jean nodded.

“ _Why_? Isn’t there someone who can come pick you up?”

“Nah. Parents work ‘till late.”

“Even on weekends?”

He paused before answering, “I don’t really tell ‘em about the extra stuff I have to do for band or whatever.”

“And why not?”

“Don’t think they’d care either way.” He sighed. “Are we gonna get ice cream or do you wanna keep playing twenty questions?”

“Oh, right!” I exclaimed, shooing him to the passenger’s side of the Highlander. “Right. Get in.”

*

“And here we are!” I’d pulled into a parking space directly facing the entrance of the diner, and a big, red neon sign that yelled ‘Maria’s’ was there to greet us.

Jean commented, “Looks like this place was made in the 60’s.”

“1957, actually,” I corrected before opening my door and stepping out into the cool, early-evening air. “You’re going to like it though, trust me.”

“Whatever you say,” he mumbled as he exited the car.

Grinning, I hopped onto the curb and over to the entryway, tugging it open and motioning for him to go inside. “After you.”

He stepped into the restaurant rather hesitantly, slowly enveloping his surroundings. Before us was a floor littered with checkered tiles of black and white as far as the eye could see, a various amount of booths and tables with chairs standing on top of them. Eight red and silver stools were perched in front of a glittering black counter, and a jukebox was stationed a little farther to the right. It was an authentic 1950’s-style diner through and through, and to my utter surprise, Jean seemed to be quite impressed.

“Wow,” was all he had to say about the layout of the place, and my smile widened enough to where I thought my face would split in two. We sat down across from each other in the booth closest to the door, Jean practically diving face-first into the worn leather out of growing excitement. It wasn’t long after that a waitress with a familiar face approached us, but instead of taking our order, she slid into the booth next to me, wrapping her arms around my neck in a tight embrace.

“Marco!” Krista squealed happily as she squeezed. “It’s been so long!”

“Didn’t I just see you at practice?” I managed to choke out, and she released her hold, rolling her eyes playfully.

“I mean since you came to the diner,” she chirped as she stood back up, patting down her apron. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, turning to face Jean with a warm smile.

“This is Jean,” I said. “The new sax, remember?”

“Oh, yeah! It’s nice to meet you! My name’s Krista and I play the flute.” Krista stuck her hand out for Jean to shake, and he did. “Sorry I didn’t remember you, I have a _really_ bad memory.”

“Yeah, you even forgot to take our order,” I teased, and she let out a shocked gasp.

“My bad! Well, what’ll ya have?”

“Two Special Sundaes, please.” Turning to Jean, I asked, “Do you want anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Sounds good!” Krista winked before spinning around to face the counter and shouting, “Ymir! Two Special Sundaes!”

“Got it!” a voice, who I assumed belonged to Ymir, yelled back.

“Oh, Ymir works here?” Jean piped up.

“She’s one of our cooks!” Krista replied, seeming rather excited that he’d finally said something. “You know her?”

Jean nodded. “We have social studies together. Talked to her a couple times.” He met her gaze for a few seconds but quickly returned to twiddling his thumbs under the table, looking a bit on edge.

 _Does he get nervous around new people?_ I wondered.

My curiosity was diminished when Ymir called out, “Order up!” and the ding of a bell soon followed.

“Bring them over! Someone you know is here!” Krista said back, and Jean gave her a look that seemed a bit rattled.

“Huh? Who?” Ymir asked as she lifted the counter with one hand so she could slip through, a tray carrying two Special Sundaes in the other. She spotted Jean, who was still focused on his thumbs, not a moment later and broke out into a toothy grin. “Undercut! Never expected to see you ‘round here. How’s it hangin’?”

Jean looked up at the sound of her voice and gave a meek smile. Then, after giving a curt wave, he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep callin’ me that because you can’t remember my _actual_ name.”

“Well, you’d be right,” Ymir snorted as she brought our ice cream down to the table with a clatter. After tucking the tray under her arm and swiping her raven-colored bangs to each side of her forehead, she held out a hand to Jean, which he shook stiffly. “Was it Jane?”

“Jean.”

“Oh, right! I gotcha.”

Ymir turned to me. “And I know you, too. You’re a sax, aren’tcha?” She wagged a finger at me while she rubbed at her chin thoughtfully. I smiled and nodded.

“And you’re drum line?” I asked despite already knowing the answer.

“Damn right!” Ymir exclaimed, her voice oozing with pride. “Now, your name was…Marcus, wasn’t it?”

“Marco.” I allowed myself to laugh a little, and Ymir smacked herself in the forehead.

“Eh, I was close enough,” she chuckled. “Usually I can remember the names of Krista’s friends, so I dunno why yours slipped my mind.”

Before I could respond, a man with a round face and portly build appeared behind the counter and shouted, “Ymir! Krista! Stop socializing and get back to work!”

“There’s no one else in here besides these two!” Ymir snapped at him without hesitation as she gestured to Jean and me.

“Then you can scrub some tables,” the man retorted smugly, holding up a spray bottle and dirty wash cloth. “Won’t that be fun?”

Ymir let out a disgusted noise before stalking over to the counter where the smug man stood, snatching the cleaning supplies out of his hand and then heading to a nearby booth.

Meanwhile, Krista turned back to us, the smile on her face a bit forced. “Talk to you guys later, okay?”

“Alright,” I replied, giving her a small wave. “Don’t have too much fun scrubbing those tables.”

“Trust me, I won’t.” She giggled before adding, “And it was nice meeting you, Jean.”

“You too,” he mumbled, but she was already sashaying over to the counter to get a spray bottle and wash cloth of her own.

“So Jean—” I started to say, but my voice was suddenly cut off by the sound of beating drums.

Curiously, he and I turned our heads to the source of the noise, only to see that Ymir had slinked over to the jukebox and loaded up a song. The grin she had on her face was amused and mischievous as she began to bop her head to the music and moseyed back over to the table that her spray bottle stood on top of.

“Ymir!” the portly man, who I assumed was their manager, yelled. The color of his face resembled that of a fire truck’s, and I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

“I’m workin’!” Ymir sang, swaying her hips back and forth as she moved her wash cloth in the same motion. She cackled after a few moments and then turned to Krista, who was standing at the counter with a huge grin.

“You’re such a dork!” Krista shouted over the music, and the other winked at her in return. She laughed and went to work as well, but not before stopping by the jukebox and cranking up the volume, causing Ymir to whoop and holler in encouragement.

“Oh, I think I know this song!” I realized while turning back to Jean.

“Pretty Woman by Ray Orbison.” His voice was hardly audible as he confirmed my assumption. “One of the top hits from 1964.”

“Wow.” I was impressed. “How did you know that?”

He shrugged. “I like music.”

“I see.” It was silent between us for a second or two.

“So you’ve known those two for a while?” Jean asked me, gesturing to Krista and Ymir as they danced and scrubbed tables.

I nodded before spooning some ice cream into my mouth. “Pretty much everyone in band knows each other, but I’m closer to Krista because she used to tutor me in math a couple years ago. We ended up hanging out a lot even after she stopped tutoring me, and well, here we are now.”

“Oh,” he said. “You like her or somethin’?”

“No, no,” I laughed. “It’s not like that. Krista and I are just good friends. Besides, she’s already taken.”

“She is? By who?”

“This one’s for you, Krista!” Ymir shouted, and we both turned our attention to her. She was standing on top of a table and holding the spray bottle a few inches below her mouth like it was a microphone, passionately lip syncing to the music.

“Ymir! Get the hell down from there or you’re fired!” the manager shouted.

“Aye, aye, cap’n!” Ymir launched herself off the table and landed perfectly on her feet, both of her arms stretched towards the sky. “Thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

“You’re kidding,” Jean objected, and for a split second, I feared that he was going to start making disgusted comments about their relationship. Instead, he said, “A girl like Krista _can’t_ be dating Ymir. She’s a maniac!” and I relaxed a little, a smile playing on my lips.

“They’ve been going out since Christmas of junior year,” I confirmed, feeling slightly relieved.

“Poor Krista,” he muttered, turning back to his half-melted sundae and shoveling more of it into his mouth.

That made me chuckle. “It seems like you’re already close to Ymir.”

“Barely,” he snorted. “She just likes to make fun of my hair.”

“What’s the story behind that, anyway?”

“Behind what?”

“Your hair.” I pointed to my temple. “What gave you the idea to shave some of it and then dye it two different colors?”

“First of all,” Jean began to say, but paused to swallow down another spoonful of Special Sundae, “This style is called an undercut. It’s not rare or anything. And second, I only dyed the top half. The shaven part is my natural color.” He ran a hand through his hair somewhat dramatically after that, looking proud of himself.

“So what made you decide to get it done like that?”

“I just thought it would look good on me.” Jean smirked. “Why did youdecide to get _your_ hair done like that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you implying that there’s something _wrong_ with my hair?”

He shrugged, looking somewhat amused. “It’s a little too short to me. You should grow out your bangs a bit, maybe down to your eyes or somethin’.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him sarcastically. “How’s the sundae?”

“Mmphf.” Jean gave me a thumbs-up, his mouth full of ice cream.

“Good to hear,” I laughed, and then asked, “So did you move here from out of town?”

“There you go again, asking all these damn questions,” he responded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pretty curious guy, huh?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation here,” I said, and then feeling a little more bold, asked, “Now are you going to answer me or not?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “I didn’t just move here. Actually lived in the same house for a while. I went to a Catholic private school in another city up until now, ‘s why I don’t really know a lot about this area.”

“Wow, you went to school in another city? How did you manage to get there and back every day?”

“A driver came to pick me up along with a bunch of other kids in the neighborhood. Sorta like takin’ the bus, I guess.”

“A driver,” I repeated, and Jean nodded. “You had to wear uniforms and stuff?”

He bobbed his head again.

“That sounds like a pretty prestigious school.”

“Not really,” he replied. “It seems that way on the outside, but it’s the same as every other high school. Drugs, sex, and alcohol are a normal thing there, too.”

“Huh,” I said. “So why did you decide to come here?”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” Jean chuckled. “Sorta got expelled. Trost High was my only other option,” he paused to think before adding, “Besides a boarding school out-of-state, anyway.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my skull, they were so wide. “Are you serious? What did you _do_?”

“A little too eager to know, aren’t we?”

“Sorry.” My apology was sheepish. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Relax. I’m just messin’ with ya.” Jean said as his mouth upturned in a slight grin. “I got into a fight with a teacher.”

“You hit an adult?!”

The blond snorted loudly before losing it altogether; he banged his fist on the table and sat back as his body trembled with laughter, his other hand clutching his stomach. “You should see the look on your face right now,” he snickered, and when he calmed down, he said, “Listen, I’m not _that_ insane. I just cussed him out.”

“Oh,” my shoulders loosened as the relief washed through me. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was it about?”

“Nothing _too_ big,” Jean shrugged. “He was just saying some real prejudiced bullshit during class one day and I didn’t want to sit there and stay silent. That’s all.”

“Prejudiced…?”

“Just a bunch of homophobic crap. Kind of expected from a southern Catholic school, but having to listen to it as often as I did can get real old, real fast.”

My stomach was suddenly twisted into a complicated knot, my head spinning faster than a merry-go-round. I didn’t want to continue talking about such a subject; I wanted to quit before things became too uncomfortable, but my curiosity overwhelmed me and asked, “Was it really affecting you that bad?”

Jean drew back a little, as if my question was almost offensive to him. “Of course. He was bashin’ an entire community of people, a community that I also think myself to be a part of. Not saying anything would’ve been the same as losing my own self-respect.” He gave me a look that seemed a bit irritated before focusing his attention back to his dessert.

“Ah, sorry,” I apologized quickly, “I didn’t want to make it seem like the subject didn’t matter or anything. You were right to call him out on the things he was saying; truthfully, I would have been pretty upset too if I were in your place at the time.”

While shrugging his shoulders, Jean simply replied, “No problem. ’S just a really touchy subject for me.”

“So does that mean you’re…?” I began to ask, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. Thankfully though, Jean seemed to know where I was headed, anyway.

“Gay? No.” He grinned before shoveling the remnants of his ice cream into his mouth. “I’m bisexual.”

The way he was able to tell me something like that without even blinking amazed me in ways that he would never know, but still, I attempted to remain unfazed. “Sorry, I should really stop asking you such personal questions.”

“Nah, you’re fine. If you ever ask about somethin’ I don’t want you to know, I’ll tell ya.” He gave me what looked to be somewhat of a reassuring smile, and I nodded.

“Fair enough.”

“So what about you then, Freckles? What’s _your_ story?” Jean shifted so that he was leaning back against his seat, crossing his arms and slouching a little as he did so.

“ _Freckles_?” I repeated, wrinkling my nose.

 “You got a lot of ‘em,” the blond shrugged. “What, you don’t like that nickname?”

“I don’t mind it, I guess,” I said slowly. “But anyway, what do you want to know about me? I’m telling you now, there isn’t too much to say. I’m not all that exciting.”

“Hm,” Jean pondered for a moment. “Well, let’s start off with a simple one. How long have you lived in Trost?”

“I don’t, actually,” I responded, and the other quirked an eyebrow at me. “I live in Sina, the next town over. It’s about ten to fifteen minutes away from here. Have you ever heard of it?”

“Actually, that’s where I live, too. Since fifth grade, I’m pretty sure.”

“No way! In which neighborhood?”

“The one subdivision that’s pretty much on the border between Trost and Sina, a quarter-mile away from where that Walmart was just built. Technically its name is Lakeview Estates, but everyone calls it ‘The Hills.’ Know what I’m talkin’ about?”

My eyes widened immediately. “ _That’s_ where you live? The houses in there are _huge_!”

“So you do.”

“Well, yeah!” I blurted. “My house is in the subdivision only a few blocks down, so I pass by when I’m going to and from school every day.”

“And how long have you lived there?” Jean asked.

“My whole life,” I told him, and then paused before adding, “It’s kind of weird how we’ve lived in the same area for a while, but I’ve never even seen you around town before.”

He shrugged, using the tip of his index finger to nudge at his empty glass. “My parents used to keep me inside all the time and I went to school in a different city. I don’t think we could’ve ever crossed paths.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

An awkward silence passed between us, the only sounds heard being the soft melody of an Elvis Presley song playing on the jukebox and Ymir as she obnoxiously sang along. Jean fiddled with his cup some more as I racked my brain for something interesting to say, and then I realized something rather strange.

“You said you went to a _private_ school, right? What was it called?”

“St. Augustine’s. What of it?”

“They didn’t have a marching band program there, did they?”

“…No, they didn’t. How’d you know that?”

I leaned forward in my seat to put my elbows on the table and rest my cheek on my right hand. “I probably would have run into you during county competition last year, but I don’t remember seeing St. Augustine’s, or the name of _any_ private schools, on the roster.”

Jean just nodded his head in understanding, and that’s when the realization hit. “Jean…you’ve never been in marching band before, have you?”

The blond slowly shook his head at me, his expression turning more and more sheepish by the second. “Looks like I’ve been found out.”

“So you’re telling me that you have no idea how any of our routines work?”

Another shake of the head came from his end.

“Football games, pep rallies, field trips, none of it?”

He shrugged. “I only know what I managed to pick up during practice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathed, running a hand through my air. “When were you planning on telling anyone about this?”

“I wasn’t,” he laughed meekly, and my eyes narrowed slightly. “Sorry, alright? Thought I could just wing it during our scrimmage next week and then try to get the hang of it from there.” He hadn’t even finished his sentence before he averted his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table timidly.

“Jean,” I said, and he glanced at me briefly. “You do realize that you could get into _so_ much trouble with Mr. Ackerman by doing that, don’t you?”

The blond dismissed my notion with a wave of his hand. “I’m not afraid of him. He can do whatever he wants, but it’s not like he can pull me out for screwing up at a _scrimmage_. ’S not even a real game, so who cares?”

“You don’t understand,” I sighed, exasperated. “This isn’t just _any_ scrimmage. The director of the band we’re facing is an old friend of his; _rival_ , actually, from when they were in high school.”

Jean suddenly looked a bit interested. “Really? What’s the story behind all that?”

“The guy’s name is Farlan Church, I’m pretty sure. The two of them always used to compete against each other for first chair, but he never lost. I guess our performance during this scrimmage is a way for Mr. Ackerman to prove himself as the better band director,” I concluded. Meanwhile, the other seemed like any interest he had completely dissipated.

“And when did you find out about all this?”

“He told us everything on Thursday of this week. You were most likely asleep during class or something.”

Jean snorted. “Yeah, probably.”

“Anyway, I’m not going to let you ‘wing it’ during the scrimmage and make us all look bad,” I told him, sounding a little irritated. “You need to learn our routine, and you need to be able to do it right, otherwise we’re _all_ going to take the fall for it.”

“So what do you think I should do, Mr. Bodt?” he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm and amusement.

I thought for a moment, and then a decision came to mind. “I’ll teach you.”

“No way,” Jean smirked.

“I’ve been in band for my entire high school career. The routine is practically engraved in my brain,” I insisted, and when he didn’t answer, I added, “If you work with me, you could have everything memorized just in time for the game.”

He sighed. “Alright, fine. Let’s just meet at the library on Monday, I guess.”

“Nope,” I shook my head. “We need to start as soon as possible. You’re coming to my house tomorrow, and that’s final.”

“Who said I agreed to that?” he grumbled.

“You didn’t,” I replied coolly. “But unless you _want_ seventy-five other teenagers angry and out for your blood because you screwed up one of our most important performances of the season, than I suggest you be at my house by ten.”

Jean bit his lip and furrowed his brow, contemplating on whether or not he should take me up on my offer. “Fine,” he agreed at last. “But do we really have to start at ten? That’s so early in the morning.”

“Alright, eleven o’clock, then,” I decided. “No later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Before I could say anything more, Ymir suddenly appeared at our table, looking rather irritated. Jean didn’t speak, but instead quirked a questioning eyebrow at her as if to ask what it was that she wanted.

“Look, I don’t got a problem with you guys or nothin’, but in case you didn’t know, the diner is supposed to close _early_ on the weekends. You bein’ here is keeping me and Krista from goin’ home, so you mind takin’ your chit-chat somewhere else?” Her arms were folded across her chest now, her fingers drumming against her bicep in annoyance.

 _Oops_. “Sorry Ymir, we’ll leave now,” I smiled and scooted out of the booth, giving Jean a warning look as I did so.

He took the hint and stood up as well, then gave Ymir a brief nod. “See you around.”

After Jean and I put a few bills down on the table for our sundaes, we exited the diner in a hurry. “What time is it?” he asked me as soon as we were outside.

I pulled out my car keys from the front pocket of my jeans and unlocked my Highlander before reaching for my phone. “It’s almost half past six,” I reported.

“Had no idea it was so late already,” Jean said, and a yawn followed soon after.

I offered, “I’ll drive you home.”

“Nah, it’s alright. I don’t have a problem with walkin’.”

“Yeah, well I’d feel bad if I just left you standing here in front of the diner. Get in.” I motioned for him to open the passenger door while heading to the driver’s side, and he let out a huge sigh before complying.

“You really don’t have to drive me,” he grumbled as soon as he had slammed his door shut, and I shot him a rather annoyed look in return.

“Just tell me your address.”

*

By the time my car pulled into the driveway of my house, it was nearly seven o’clock at night and I was absolutely _exhausted_. A yawn escaped me as I hopped out of the Highlander, serving as a warning for me to get to bed as soon as possible, despite the still-early hour of evening. My father appeared at the front door as I was unloading my stuff, his arms folded and eyebrows raised.

“Where were you?” he asked. “I thought practice always ends at five.”

“I went to the diner with a friend,” I grunted, heaving my backpack over my shoulder and making my way towards the entrance of our house. I stopped when arriving at my destination, however, because Dad hadn’t budged from where he was standing in the middle of the doorway. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t believe my excuse for being late, before finally sliding over in order to let me pass.

“Welcome home!” Mom’s voice sounded as soon as my dirtied Converse touched the hardwood floor of our home. “How was practice?”

“Tiring and hot!” I yelled back before dropping my stuff to the floor and then slipping off my shoes. After making sure they were safely on the rack to the right of the door, I journeyed around the house in search for my mother, only to find her sitting on the living room couch with a newspaper in her hands.

“You’re late, _hijo_ ,” she greeted me as I planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Sorry, Mom,” I apologized while plopping down next to her. “There’s this new guy at my school, and I thought I would take him to Maria’s since he isn’t all that familiar with a bunch of the places around Trost. He’s in band too, my new stand partner, actually.”

“Oh, really?” She asked as she continued flipping through her newspaper. “What happened to that other boy, Nac?”

“Boarding school,” I explained simply, and she nodded her head in understanding.

“So what is this new boy’s name?”

“Jean.”

My mother turned to look at me, her interest slightly piqued. “Spelled like J-E-A-N?” she asked, and I nodded. “Is he French?”

“Yeah,” I said, “But his last name sounds German. It’s Kirschtein.”

“Maybe his parents are of different ethnicities,” she suggested. “If you want, you could invite him over one day.”

“Actually, I sort of already told him he could come over tomorrow,” I confessed with a slight grin. “He doesn’t know the routine for football games, so I offered to teach him.”

Thankfully, my mother didn’t seem angry with me in the slightest. “Make sure he doesn’t stay too late then,” she replied.

“Got it,” I said and kissed her on the cheek once more before standing up. “I’ll be in my room if you need me. Oh, and by the way,” I looked around before continuing, “Where’s Sophie? She’s usually down here watching TV with you at this hour.”

Mom simply shrugged. “She went straight to her room as soon as she got home from swim practice.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Have you had dinner yet? There are leftovers in the fridge.”

“Nope, I already ate,” I replied, my tone turning slightly amused.

“What did you eat?”

I paused, a mischievous smile spreading across my face, before saying, “An ice cream sundae.”

“Marco!” she groaned, causing me to laugh while making a break for the stairs.

“Hey, don’t forget your stuff still sitting by the shoe rack!” Dad called to me from the kitchen table where he was now sitting, and I gave him a thumbs-up while trotting to the door.

After grabbing my backpack and saxophone case off the ground, I walked over to the staircase and began to climb, the extra weight on my shoulders and back threatening to make me fall face-first onto the steps. Thankfully enough, I managed to get to my bedroom in one piece, nearly collapsing as soon as I kicked the door shut behind me.

I didn’t even bother with attempting to do my homework; it could wait until later. Instead, my mind decided to spend a good few minutes swimming with thoughts of how tomorrow could turn out. Jean and I had somehow managed to keep our awkward silences to a minimum when we were at the diner, but maybe having him come over was another chance for us to completely get rid of any tension he had towards me. Maybe we could actually become friends, if that wasn’t what we were already.

 _That would actually be pretty great_ , I thought to myself as my eyelids started to close. There was a childish kind of excitement pooling in the pit of my stomach as I slowly drifted off into a deep slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the third chapter of Clarity!!! With this, I've finally managed to re-upload the rest of what was already on AO3 (now much better than before) and even added an extra little scene for you guys. I'm working at an extremely slow pace right now, but my motivation to write is higher than it's been since I started this story. Please continue to be patient with me, and I'll have the next chapter out as soon as I can! :)
> 
> I'm going to get a teeny bit serious for a second and say that if you like this fic and wish for me to continue it, please leave your comments below with some feedback or suggestions you might have! It really helps me a lot, since my motivation for writing is very unstable (as some of you may already know) and it's hard to finish something that I'm not sure whether or not people care about. A comment says so much more than a kudos does, trust me. ^^;
> 
> Also, feel free to suggest Clarity to your friends and bookmark it as well! You can follow my tumblr @arizona-bxy for updates, pretty scenery, or if you just want to send me an ask encouraging my lazy ass to write something. With all that said, I'll see you in the next chapter, lovelies!! <3


	4. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean comes over to Marco's house and meets his mom and sister for the first time, learns about marching band, and helps Sophie with some of her problems. Also, he and Marco are officially bros. Ain't that somethin'.

I didn’t know what the better option was: honking my horn a couple times and possibly disturbing the entire neighborhood, or completing the arduous task of exiting the car and going to ring the doorbell.

A sigh escaped me as I sat back and stared at the McMansion Jean called home, its cream-colored exterior glowing bright enough in the sunlight to cause temporary blindness. The house looked to be three stories tall, with a gray-tiled roof and brick columns that created an arch over the entrance. Its windows ranged from half-round to square to rectangular, some of them too small to even have blinds, and there were so many at the front of the house that I started to wonder if the builders added more than necessary just for laughs. Meanwhile, the driveway was huge enough to fit three vehicles at the same time, which made sense, seeing as how it lead to a three-car garage that looked about the size of a small ranch home. I started to wonder just what kind of cars could be in there before a glimpse of Jean came into my view. I waited for him to get closer before unlocking the door, and he flung open the passenger’s side and graciously hopped in.

“You could’ve just knocked on the door,” he told me, “Or at least honked your horn. Thankfully I was lookin’ out my window right when you pulled up, otherwise you would’ve been waiting out here for a while.”

“Good morning to you too,” I replied, starting up the engine. “Are you ready to learn all about marching band?”

He gave a small sigh before shrugging nonchalantly. “Guess so.”

“It’s great to see that you’re so enthusiastic,” I laughed. “But you know, it really _is_ fun once you learn the ropes.” After seeing that he had his seatbelt on, I put my foot on the gas and we exited his neighborhood.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he grumbled, and I smirked. We didn’t speak much the rest of the time it took to get to my house.

*

“Here we are,” I said while pulling into my driveway and Jean leaned forward to look out the window.

He told me, “Wow, ’s a pretty decent size.” He wasn’t saying it to make me feel better, even though we were both well-aware that his home was much more gigantic in comparison.

My house really _was_ a decent size, with its two stories and somewhat-finished basement. Unlike Jean’s, my garage was only able to fit two cars at a time rather than three, but there was a little block of pavement to the side so I had a place to park my Highlander. The pathway leading up to the house was outlined with smooth stones of various shapes and sizes, and the front entrance had copious amounts of flowers on either side. My mom had a really strong love for flowers, which would be great and all if I weren’t so deathly afraid of bees. Nonetheless, I would say the house looked pretty average, not that I really cared either way. It was home. That’s what mattered most.

I concentrated on parking before giving a simple response of, “Yeah, it’s a comfortable place to live.” After removing my keys from the ignition, I stepped out and then gestured for him to follow. “Come on.”

He trailed behind me reluctantly, examining the front of the house. “Who lives here with you?” he asked.

“My parents and younger sister, Sophie, who’s a freshman,” I responded while unlocking the entrance. “I also have an older sister, but she moved out a couple years ago.” The door swung open and I stepped inside, gesturing to the shoe rack on my left. “You can leave your shoes there.”

“I got an older sister too. Name’s Alessandra. We’re about a decade apart.” Jean leaned down to yank the worn-out tennis shoes he had on off his feet before clumsily arranging them on the small shelf.

“Your sister is twenty-eight?!” I asked, somewhat shocked.

“Twenty-nine, actually. She feels more like an aunt than my sister sometimes,” he smirked before taking a moment to envelop his surroundings, looking from the dining room on the left to the stairs on the right. “Nice,” was all he had to say while nodding slightly.

“Thanks,” I replied, and then yelled out, “Mom! Jean is here!”

“You told your family I was coming over?” he asked, seeming startled.

I gave him a weird look. “Well yeah, of course. What do you think would happen if you went to the bathroom and bumped into my mom when you came out?” I paused for him to respond, but he merely shrugged. “She would start screaming and attacking the unfamiliar man in her house, that’s what.”

“Good point,” the other acknowledged, and I laughed before journeying forward into the kitchen.

“ _Hola, hijo_ ,” my mother greeted me from where she stood behind the sink, washing what looked to be peppers, cucumbers, and a few other vegetables. “Could you get me a colander please? I need to drain some pasta.”

“Sure.” I walked over to the cabinet right behind her and pulled out what she needed, and then set it down right next to the sink. “What are you making?”

“Baked pasta with roasted veggies,” she replied before peering up and seeing Jean standing awkwardly at the kitchen entrance. “Come in, _guapo_! There’s no need to be shy,” she told him with a gentle smile, gesturing for him to enter with a zucchini in her hand.

He came closer reluctantly, the tiny grin on his face seeming forced. “’S nice to meet you, ma’am,” he mumbled before quickly averting his eyes and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You can call me Lorena,” she said.

“Oh, are you Colombian?”

My mother and I both exchanged looks of surprise. “It’s a common Hispanic name, but yes, I am. How did you know?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“Lucky guess.”

“Oh hey,” I realized. “Jean, we need to go work on teaching you the football game routine.”

The blond seemed grateful that I’d chimed in. “Oh yeah. Almost forgot about that.”

“Come on, then,” I told him before walking away from my mother and toward the stairs.

“Lunch will be ready soon!” Mom yelled when Jean and I had already begun to climb the steps.

I called over my shoulder, “Alright, thanks Mom!”

After getting to the top of the stairs, I took a few steps forward and opened the door to my room. Gesturing for Jean to enter, I said, “Welcome to my cave.”

He stepped inside rather slowly, beginning to examine his surroundings. First he eyed the unorganized bookshelf in the far left corner, followed by my desk sitting on the far right. He continued to scan the premises with little to no expression on his face, and I found it hard to tell exactly what he was thinking.

Unable to take the silence any longer, I asked, “What do you think?”

“Cozy,” was his response. Well, that was better than nothing.

“Alright, time to learn,” I announced, moving to grab some paper and pencils from my top desk drawer. After snagging the needed supplies, I sat down in my computer chair and motioned for him to sit on the bed across from me. He sighed before plopping down onto the mattress and then leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand.

“What are we learning first?” he asked me, his tone already sounding uninterested.

I thought for a moment before answering, “Well, before the game we have inspections. Those are pretty self-explanatory, so I’ll go over those later. Afterward, though, we march out to the cadence and on to the stands in order to warm up. You know what a cadence is, right?”

“Condense? Like, condensed milk?”

I sighed. “This might take a while.”

*

“Marco, Jean! Lunch is ready!” my mom yelled an hour and a half after the newbie and I had started his lessons.

“We’ll be down in a minute!” I shouted in response before slumping back in my chair, mentally exhausted. My gaze moved over to Jean, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. “What is it?” I asked.

“Think I get it now,” he told me slowly as he chewed on one of his fingernails. “Yeah, pretty sure I’ve got it.” He paused before adding, “Well, the part that you’ve told me about so far.”

I perked up a little bit. “You do?” When he nodded, I said, “Alright, then tell me the first half of the routine step-by-step.”

“Okay, first there are inspections. That’s where the section leaders make sure everyone has their black shoes and socks, instrument, and hatbox.”

“What time do we have to be there?” I asked.

Jean responded, “If it’s a home game, six thirty. Away games are five thirty,” with ease.

I nodded and then instructed, “Keep going.”

“Once inspections are over, we gotta march to the cadence and then on to the stands. Then we warm up and water bottles get passed out. After that, we put on our hats and gloves and go to the equipment cart on the field to get our jackets and gauntlets.”

 _Impressive._ “Remind me, what are gauntlets again?”

“Long, detachable sleeve cuffs,” the blond recited perfectly, and I smiled. We’d spent an extra minute or so getting him to remember exactly what those were.

“What happens after we get the jackets and gauntlets?”

“We practice the Star Spangled Banner before going out to the field and playin’ it for real. After we’re done, we put our jackets and gauntlets back onto the cart. Then we go back to the stands and play game songs.” He looked at me smugly, and I found that my grin was growing bigger by the second.

“We’re not done yet,” I warned before hastily putting up a couple fingers. “Quick! Tell me two songs that we might play while we’re in the stands.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “‘Iron Man’ and ‘Hang On Sloopy.’”

“Good job!” I congratulated him, and he gave me a slight grin in return. “Your reward is lunch. Come on.” I hopped up from my computer chair and jogged out of my room and to the stairs. Jean got up and pursued me a moment later, and together we bounded down the steps.

A savory aroma greeted us as we entered the kitchen, and immediately, my stomach growled. My mother’s laughter then followed, and I looked around for the source of her voice. She popped into view from behind the kitchen counter soon after, her hands carrying a container filled to the brim with what could only be our meal. Seeing that, I instantly sprang into action, heading over to the dishes cabinet and pulling out four plates.

“Where’s Sophie?” I questioned while putting the plates down onto the table. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

“She’s still in her room,” Mom sighed, her shoulders sagging. “She hasn’t eaten since then, either. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“If you want, I’ll try talking to her,” I offered, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Could you, _hijo_? She doesn’t want to tell me anything.”

I nodded. “I’ll be back down in a second.” After giving my mother a quick squeeze, I headed toward the stairs.

“I’ll go with ya,” Jean said quickly and started walking behind me.

“You’ve never even _met_ my sister,” I pointed out as we went back up the steps.

Beside me, he grumbled, “I know, but I’d rather go with you than stay alone in the kitchen with your mom.”

“Why?” I laughed as we took a left at the top of the stairs and headed toward Sophie’s room. “She doesn’t bite.”

“I feel awkward around her, alright? Just met her today, ya know.”

We stopped in front of my sister’s door. “Whatever you say,” I told him before knocking. “Hey Sophie, are you in there?”

No response.

“Hello?” I called again, but there was still no answer. We waited for a few moments before Jean gave an irritated sigh and gently shoved me out of the way, barging inside. My eyes widened, and I started to scold him for entering without an invitation. However, the two of us froze upon seeing a pink, ball-shaped figure by a window in the far right corner of the bedroom. We inched closer to the ball with caution, only to soon realize that it was actually Sophie wrapped up in one of her blankets.

As soon as I was close enough, my hand reached for her shoulder. “Soph?” She instantly moved away from me, her gaze unmoving from the window.

“What’s her problem?” Jean mouthed, but all I could do was shrug.

“Sophie, you haven’t eaten since yesterday. Mom is getting worried about you,” I tried again, but still, she was unresponsive. Sighing, I turned to the blond, my hands throwing themselves up into the air as a sign of defeat.

Meanwhile, Jean had sat himself down on my sister’s bed, looking as if he were thinking about something. Before I could question what was on his mind, he said, “Ya know, if she wants to be an immature little brat and not let anybody know what’s buggin’ her, leave her alone. There’s no use in trying.”

“Jean!” My voice came out sounding both shocked and scolding. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I’m not an immature brat,” Sophie protested suddenly, her words exiting in an annoyed croak. “I’ve never even met you before, so you have no right to call me that.”

The other merely smirked. “I don’t need to know you to be able to tell. The way you’re acting right now proves my point well enough.”

My sister turned around to face him this time, a menacing look in her eyes. “I’m _not_ a brat,” she repeated, a little more edge in her tone.

“Jean,” I warned, but he put up his hand to silence me.

“Oh yeah?” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his kneecaps, making complete eye contact with her and squinting slightly. “Then stop actin’ like one and tell your brother and me just what the hell’s wrong with you.”

Sophie continued to glare at him for a few seconds, but Jean didn’t budge. He stared back, the look he gave her being both expectant and smug. Finally, after looking back and forth between us a couple times, she muttered, “I hate high school.”

Jean let out an obnoxious snort, and then it was my turn to glower at him. He gave me a nonchalant shrug before I looked back at Sophie and asked, “What do you mean?”

She sighed, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “Everything is so much more… _different_ than it used to be. Everything is bigger, the hallways are more crowded so I get pushed around a lot, and some of my really close friends from last year act like they don’t even know me anymore. It’s different, the constant negative atmosphere makes me feel anxious all the time, and I just…” She buried her face back into the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders before letting out a muffled, “I can’t go back. I just can’t.”

“I don’t get it,” was what decided to exit my mouth first. “Besides the lunch incident that happened on the first day, you seemed like you were doing alright.”

Behind me, Jean suddenly let out a disgusted noise. “Did you ever think that maybe she was just really good at hiding it?” He got up from where he was sitting on my sister’s bed and sat down cross-legged a foot or two away from where she and I were by the window. “Hey. Sophie, was it? Look at me, alright?”

She slowly rotated her head to face in his direction before hesitantly meeting his eyes, not daring to say a word. Meanwhile, I watched them restlessly, slightly fearing what Jean might say.

He took a breath. “The thing about high school is that it sucks like all hell, and it won’t get any easier for the rest of the time you’re here. I mean, not only are you gonna be up to your eyes with homework and studying every night, but there are going to be so many times where you get so stressed out that you just wanna give up.”

“Jean—” I began, feeling exasperated.

“But,” he cut me off, “You can’t just sit here and whine about how everything isn’t goin’ your way and hope that things’ll eventually get better. ’S not gonna get better unless you pull yourself together and fight for what you want. Nobody succeeds and conquers life just by wishin’ that they could. You get me?”

To my relief, Sophie nodded. “I think so.” She paused. “But you said something about stress…does it really get that bad?

“Well, yeah,” Jean said. “Sometimes it’s homework, sometimes it’s friends. Or parents, teachers, sports, quizzes, projects, final exams. Sometimes it’s everything all at once. You never really know until you have to go through it.”

“That doesn’t sound fun at all,” my sister whispered.

“It isn’t,” the blond stated matter-of-factly. “But going through all of that brings about so much change. The ways that you think and act and respond to certain things are changing and making you into a better version of yourself with every single hardship. Not sayin’ it’s an easy road to walk down, but it’s worth it. You’ll get stronger eventually, and you’ll get through high school. You just gotta wait. Give it time.”

“Jean is right,” I chimed in, the shock of his sudden philosophical lesson still fresh in my mind. “High school isn’t at all easy to get through, but it’s definitely worthwhile. Even if it doesn’t seem like it now, things _will_ get better. Trust m—,” I paused to look back at Jean before correcting myself with a small smile. “ _Us_.”

The other grinned back before nodding in agreement. “I’ve had to go to the same shitty private school for a whopping six years, and it was a place where almost no one could understand me, even when I got up to the ninth grade. But now I’m at Trost, I’ve got some decent friends like your brother here,” he clapped me on the shoulder a couple times, “And a pretty good understanding of myself. It wasn’t easy gettin’ to where I am now, but the fact is that I’m here, and that’s damn good enough.”

“It’ll be okay, Sophie,” I reassured her. “That’s a promise.”

She looked back at me and nodded, a slight grin starting to form on her face. Upon seeing that, I let out a sigh of relief and then turned to Jean, beaming happily. After he gave me a thumbs-up in response, I suggested, “Why don’t we go down and eat? I’m pretty sure Mom is expecting us.”

“Good idea,” Jean chirped. “I’m starving.” He stood and made his way to the door, and I got up and followed. Before completely exiting Sophie’s room however, he turned back to look at her and motioned toward our direction, his expression looking rather serious. “Get up, brat. You need to eat or you’ll die.”

The way he said it made me snort involuntarily and Sophie rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m coming, asshole.”

“Sophie!” At first I tried to scold her, but the way Jean’s face turned from shocked to delighted within a matter of seconds made me snort loudly. Meanwhile, my sister was completely nonchalant as shrugged off her blanket and hopped over to join us.

Jean patted her on the back, grinning widely. “Atta girl,” he praised, and she stared at him with an amused expression.

“Unbelievable.” I shook my head as we walked out the door into the hallway and then down the stairs.

“You better watch out, Marco,” Jean warned, “Or your sister will end up just like me.”

“God, I hope not,” I grumbled, and Sophie turned around to look at me with a mischievous smile.

“I guess we’ll see, big brother. We just gotta give it time,” she answered, repeating the words Jean had told her earlier.

That caused me to groan. “ _Sisters_ ,” I muttered under my breath.

Sophie was already halfway down the staircase. “But you love me anyway!” she called over her shoulder. I rolled my eyes but found that a smile was playing on my lips as I bounded down after her.

*

“God, I’m so full,” Jean moaned as he flopped onto my bed an hour or so later. “Your mom can definitely cook better than mine.” We’d just finished lunch and were back upstairs in my room to finish the rest of his marching band lessons.

I looked over at him from where I was standing by my desk, the sight of him smiling and rubbing his stomach contently making me laugh. “That good, huh?”

The blond sat up then, staring at me with a serious look in his eyes. “No question. My mom is a _horrible_ cook.”

“Harsh much?” I snorted. “Well, just because she may be bad at cooking doesn’t mean she isn’t good at something else. What does she do for a living?”

“Oh, she’s a member of congress.”

That caused me to give him a weird look before scoffing, “Yeah, sure. No seriously, what does she do?”

Meanwhile, Jean’s expression hadn’t changed. “I’m not joking. She’s been a congresswoman since I was in the fifth grade. That’s why we moved to Sina in the first place, to get a bigger house.”

My jaw dropped. “What?! That’s _insane!_ There aren’t even a lot of women in congress, either! Man, you must be so proud of her.”

“It’s whatever,” the other shrugged apathetically, and then proceeded to pick some dirt from under his nails. “If anything, it gets pretty annoying because she tends to bring her work home a lot.”

“Even so, she probably did a lot to get where she is, right? I’d still be pretty prou—”

“Just drop it, alright Marco?” Jean interrupted me suddenly, his harsh, on-edge tone sounding more like a warning than a suggestion. I simply stared at him in shock, unable to reply. After gazing at each other for a couple seconds, he finally said, “Let’s just get back to the routine.”

That was good enough for me. “Okay, where did we last leave off?”

Jean thought for a moment. “Before your mom called us down to eat, you were saying that we aren’t allowed to play our instruments while the actual game is going on. If we do that then we get warnings, and after three of those we just aren’t allowed to play at all.”

“Oh right,” I said. “Yeah, we basically just sit there until around seven minutes before the end of second quarter. Then we go to put our gauntlets and jackets back on so we can perform at half-time.

Now, the band that plays first depends on whether it’s a home or away game. If it’s an away game, then the other team performs first, and vice versa. Do you get what I’m saying so far?” I waited for the blond to nod before continuing. “Then, we do our performance like how we practiced, and if we’re at a home game, we take a knee on the track afterward until the other band finishes. Afterward, we take off our jackets and gauntlets for the final time, put our instruments back on the stand with our hands and gloves, and then we go get food at the concession stand.”

Jean perked up at that, shifting around on my bed until he was in a sitting position. “We get food?”

“Well, it’s not free or anything,” I explained, and the other’s shoulders slumped slightly in disappointment. “We always pre-order our meals earlier on in the week; Mr. Ackerman passes out a form to everyone during class and we check off whatever we want. Concessions are sponsored by Zaxby’s, so their menu is what we get to choose from.”

“Oh good, for a second I thought we’d be stuck eating shitty cafeteria food,” Jean sighed in relief.

I snorted. “Yeah, thankfully our school isn’t _that_ cold-hearted. Though, I guess there _is_ one thing I should mention.” The blond raised an eyebrow at me and I continued, “We always eat during our third quarter break, which is basically when we just sit in the stands instead of playing. However, if you’re late to inspections, you aren’t allowed to get your meal.”

“So what happens instead?”

I thought for a moment. “You sit in the stands and you starve. Anymore questions?” Jean shook his head, and I said, “Now, we have to be done eating before the fourth quarter starts, otherwise we’ll be penalized. Besides that, we just spend the rest of game time playing stand tunes, and when it’s over, we line up by instrument like we did before starting and then march to the cadence.”

Jean took a deep breath. “And that’s it, right?”

“Not quite,” I replied, and he groaned. “Well, we have to go back to the band room, take off our bibbers and put them with our jackets, and return our hat boxes to the hat room. After Mr. Ackerman does his final inspection to make sure everything is in its place, _then_ we’re allowed to go home.”

“Geez, and at what time would _that_ be?”

“Maybe eleven at the latest?” I guessed, and Jean groaned even louder. “Well, what did you expect? If you were just going to whine about all the work and dedication necessary to put into it, why’d you bother joining marching band in the first place?”

This made the guy go quiet for a moment before he mumbled, “I have my reasons.”

I sighed. “Whatever you say.”

“Anyway,” Jean said, changing the subject, “Is that all you had to teach me? The only reason I agreed to come over today was because you made it sound like it would take me awhile to learn the routine.” His expression had turned rather suspicious, and I just smiled at him innocently, waiting for him to speak again. He continued, “It’s only been a few hours and we’re already done. What’s the deal, Bodt?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I responded simply.

The other scoffed. “Bullshit. Spit it out already.”

“No, you’re going to laugh.”

“Don’t be a little girl about it. Just tell me.”

My eyes pointed themselves at the floor as I grumbled, “I thought we could get closer and even become friends if I invited you over, but you didn’t look like you’d go if there wasn’t a proper reason to.” After finishing my sentence, I looked up to see Jean’s expression, cringing slightly as I thought about what he might say.

He simply stared at me blankly for a few moments until finally, “That is by far the lamest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say in my entire life.” I groaned and put my face in my hands, but then he said, “Really nice of you, though. I honestly didn’t think I was going to make more than one friend here.”

I peered up at him through my hands only to see that he was looking to the left, scratching his head slightly. “Why is that?” I asked, and he shrugged.

“Like I said before, I’m not the best person to hang around.”

It was my turn to scoff this time. “You really are, though.”

“Well since you’ve only known me for less than a week, I don’t think your opinion really counts.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I told him. “Have I ever told you about my sixth sense, Jean?”

He looked at me strangely. “No, I don’t think so. What sixth sense?”

“I have the ability to tell whether a person has good character or not by only having a conversation with them once, and based on _our_ first conversation, I can confidently say that you are indeed a good person.” Jean just rolled his eyes at me, and I added, “Even if you may not see it yourself.”

That made him stop and stare at me with a weird look in his eyes, as if he were trying to tell me something that I couldn’t read. It took him a while before he finally decided on, “Thanks, Marco. That’s really kind of you.”

I smiled warmly. “You don’t have to thank me for telling the truth.” We stared at each other in silence before he smirked. “What?” I asked.

“Nothin’,” he said. “You’re just a really weird guy is all. Even though we’re stand partners, you don’t have any reason to be friends with me. But you were still nice and did everything you could to make me feel at home here in Trost. I’m grateful for that, I really am.”

I shrugged liked it was no big deal, even though I wanted so badly to smile. “It’s no problem,” my mouth decided to say. Changing the subject, I asked, “So, do you think you’re more prepared for the scrimmage on Friday?”

He snorted. “More or less. I guess we’ll see when we get there.”

“You better not make us look bad, or I’ll be the first one to jump you as soon as the game is over,” I warned, even deciding to glare a little bit to make myself seem a bit more threatening.

It didn’t work, obviously, and the laugh that Jean let out was loud and genuine. He threw his head back and cackled, tears beginning to form in his eyes, his smile big and bright. “Ya know, if you were to ever become a criminal, you’d be a terrible one. No one would be afraid of you,” he told me, and I put a hand on my chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know that I can be _really_ scary if I want to be,” I said in a serious tone, but that only made the other start laughing all over again. I narrowed my eyes before beginning to pelt him with what was nearby: the pencils and pens in an open drawer in my desk.

Jean continued laughing, shielding himself from the oncoming school supplies by raising both arms in front of his face. “Alright, alright! Hold your fire!” I didn’t stop until I was all out of ammo, and when I did, he peeked at me through his arm-barricade. “Hey, does your mom happen to have any of that pasta left?”

“I don’t know. Why, are you hungry again?”

He put his arms all the way down and shrugged coolly. “Maybe.”

I laughed. “Come on, then. Let’s go get some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Wow, the months have just passed me by, and I have to apologize yet again for my three-month-long absence from AO3. I promise I wasn't procrastinating or anything this time; school has had me up to my eyeballs in work and exams. Even now I'm about to head into three week's worth of finals, so the next update probably won't be until after the end of next month. UGH.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! The end of chapter 4 marks the end of the story's introduction, so we'll finally be getting to the good stuff after this. That means more laughs, fluff, and heart-breaking angst--I MEAN WHAT?
> 
> I suppose I should mention that the one year anniversary of this story just passed! Thaaaat's right, a year ago on the 20th is when I decided to upload the first chapter of Clarity onto AO3. Granted, I'd had ideas for the story in my head a few months prior to, but April 20 is the day I decided to share those ideas with you all. A huge thank you to those who have been here since the beginning, and a warm welcome to the newcomers! I hope you all continue to stick with Clarity for a long time. :-)
> 
> Please feel free to leave your kudos and especially your comments!! Feedback means so much to me, so don't hesitate to share your thoughts. I would greatly appreciate it. Also, don't forget to suggest Clarity to your friends and bookmark it too! You can follow me on tumblr @arizona-bxy and on Twitter @sakura_bx for updates (especially on Twitter, since I'm on it constantly)!
> 
> As always, I'll see you in the next chapter, lovelies! <333


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